Friday, August 5, 2011

Hold Me Closer, Tony Danza

I have always been fascinated by dance.  So You Think You Can Dance is the only reality show (well, other than Hoarders, because it makes me feel better about my housekeeping abilities) that I will watch.  Love the Nutcracker; once saw an Indian (dot not feather) dance concert that totally blew me away.  I would give my eye teeth to be able to dance.

And I can't.  At all.

I have tried.  I have taken dance lessons; I have been in musicals where I had to dance and practiced the choreography endlessly and still ended up in the back line so I wouldn't ruin the number.  For some reason, my head and my feet don't communicate with each other.  This might also be the reason why I fall down a lot, mixed signals; or my feet are just being stubborn. I blame it on my feet, rather than my head, because my head has no trouble talking to the rest of my body, but my feet are prone to hissy fits.  I have bad feet anyway.  I wore high heels too much in my youth (1734-1742) and I'm paying for it now. I am totally flat-footed (that looks wrong somehow) and my right foot has this little bone that broke years ago and presses against the ball of my foot, meaning if I stand for more than 4 minutes I'm in pain.   Sorry, that was probably TMI.  Let's just say I have Fucked Up Feet. 

In Debbie's Universe, aka Debbieland, there would be some sort of footwear, akin to eyewear, that would fix my feet and allow me to dance.  Instead of glasses, they would be called prances.  (Yes? No?  Vote now) I would don them and be a regular Michael Jackson, only without the glove and not dead.  Music would come on and I could move without fear of ridicule or strangers vomiting. I would get cast in a musical. And unicorns would jump over rainbows.

Alas, Debbieland only exists inside my curly covered cranium.  Now, when there is a reality show called So You Think You Can Fall Down and Have People Laugh At You,  I'll be the first in line.  Here I come, Nigel!

1 comment:

  1. I can't dance for shit. In college I used to schlep to various clubs and wriggle like a spastic with a malfunctioning butt-plug, and sometimes I got compliments (if "What the hell are you on?" is a compliment) but when it comes to actual step-ball-change hoofin' I'm worthless. A well-regarded B'ham director-choreographer cast me in a semi-dancing role once, then found excuses to ease me out of every single dance number ("I just took a look at the blocking and it doesn't work for you to be in this number...")